


Sigh No More

by action_cat



Series: Sigh No More [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AHH THE FEELS, Chinese Food, Crap Telly, Death, F/M, Fighting, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Snuggling, Thames, alarm clocks, cuteness, friends - Freeform, just a bit, just bait of snuggling and chinese food, mumford and sons, mystrade, new bodies, otp, sigh no more, telly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 19:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3180209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/action_cat/pseuds/action_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the alarm clocks. Those damn alarm clocks.<br/>But the bodies are more important, so John decides to focus on those instead. But when someone important, someone who could have been the fall or the rise of the British empire shows up dead, Sherlock Holmes takes the case. And unknowingly, steps into the weirdest world they could imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sigh No More

_"Lend me your heart, and we'll conquer them all. But lend me your heart and I'll just let you fall. Lend me your eyes, I can change what you see. But your soul you must keep, totally free."_

_\- Mumford and Sons, Awake My Soul_

 

 

It was the radio that started everything. Blasting off, at four in the morning. Of course, Mrs. Hudson wouldn't wake up that early, she was a heavy sleeper. But as Sherlock refused to change the alarm, John became increasingly stressed. That damn radio, screaming off a single lyric every morning before anyone would be ready to get up. And of course, every time John unplugged the bloody device, Sherlock would plug it back in. Again. day after day, week after week. But trying to keep life together, as any person in a relationship would, John tried to ignore the radio. And that's where our story starts, on a Friday night in January. 

 

 

 

 It was not dark yet, but it would be soon. John looked anxiously across the Thames, while forensic workers bustled around him like bees. Lestrade had found another body, a woman this time, and since Sherlock would take the interesting cases, this ex-MI6 agent was apparently perfect. But it was getting dark, and John was slowly getting cold as the sun set. He squinted at the sun, and then turned around as Lestrade shouted his name for the fifth time.

"John, c'mere. Something's off." Lestrade had called, his lilting voice carrying on the wind that made the river whitecap. John sighed and walked over, away from his shelter by a cement wall. Sherlock glanced at him, and gestured to the body.

"She's dead, but there's nothing wrong with her. I'm going to my mind palace, tell me when you've found something." And he walked right back to where John had been previously, sitting down on a cement block, slender fingers placed under his chin. John turned to Lestrade, who wore a worried expression.

"He notices everything, what is he talking about?" John looked quizzically at Lestrade, who just shrugged.

"I dunno, mate. But sun's going down in twenty, so please, the sooner we do this the sooner we get home."

John squatted down by the woman, a redhead lying face-up. Cornflower-blue eyes open, staring at the gray sky. Her mouth was open in a tiny "o", and when John gently touched it, dark water trickled out. Her hair was spread out like a fan, and her face was just slightly freckled. She was wearing dark jeans, a gray blazer underneath a maroon peacoat. Boots, scuffed leather. And around her neck was a necklace with a small bee pendant. A honeybee. John looked at her neck, no blemishes. Her lips were blue, or were they? He rubbed his thumb over the top lip, revealing the blue to just be lipstick? Paint? Something that was strong enough to withstand river water for a couple of hours. Her fingertips were blue and pruned, little purple veins running from a scratch on her index. And her eyes, something about them wasn't right.

John stood up, and Lestrade backed off where he had been hoveringly annoyingly. "What's her name?" John asked, while Lestrade flipped through his notes.

"Amelia Samson. Twenty-nine, ex-MI6 agent. She retired early, right after a single mission after she was shot in the back. She made a recovery, but although she was offered numerous times to come back, she never accepted. Samson was a chemist at a university somewhere in France, where she worked part-time for a lab. She was apparently fluent in French, German, Scottish, Icelandic, and Czechoslovakian. Her mother-" Lestrade turned the page. "Lily Samson, said Amelia was visiting for the holidays. They thought she had returned back to the school on Sunday, but apparently not. Last seen by her brother, Charlie Samson, age thirty-two."

"Call Charlie Samson and ask him about his night out in Cardiff on Saturday." Sherlock had returned, and apparently was on to something.

"Sherlock, can this wait until tomorrow? It's almost five." Lestrade whined, but John really knew why he wanted to leave. Rugby matches. But Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Well of course, if rugby is more important than figuring out a government murder. But in all sense, Lestrade, please do watch your rugby, or whatever you call it these days. I can solve this by myself." And Sherlock had walked off towards the docks. John watched him, as Lestrade stood there, gaping.

"Well- I-um, John, it is rugby, and- well, I'm inviting mates over, and-"

"It's okay. He'll wait until tomorrow, don't worry. See ya, Greg." John shook Lestrade's hand and followed Sherlock back to the docks.

"Bye John. Be careful." Then, turning around to his team, he started to call out orders. "All right! Get a body bag, get an evidence bag, and watch her hair and coat! Be careful. I'll see you lot tomorrow." They muttered their farewells and whatnot, and Lestrade walked to the bridge and took out his mobile. "Mycroft?" He said into the speaker, looking around for eavesdroppers. "I'm off, and the boys are going to the flat. Yes, I'll be there. No, I'm not wearing that. Maybe. Ta." He clicked the phone shut, and set off at a brisk pace to the heart of London. Meanwhile, the boys were taking a taxi home.

 

"So, what was the seclusion about." John was being quiet as they sped across London. Sherlock looked briefly at his face, and then stared out the window.

"Mind palace."

"No, I've seen you in your mind palace. You were texting."

"Fine. I was, but it's not to who you think it would be." Sherlock looked back, brushing John's fingers with his own.

"And who would you think I would think it would be?"

"Reservations for a date." Sherlock scoffed, while John rolled his eyes.

"I wasn't expecting something that important. But you were texting."

"No. I was going through her phone." Sherlock pulled out an iPhone, covered in a black case. "Standard. Professional. And password protected."

"Did you get through it?" John glanced at Sherlock.

"I was close, until the phone received a call." Sherlock slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"From who?" 

"Her brother."

"And from that one call you figured out that he had a night out last Saturday?"

"No, there's a feature on iPhones that you can add on. Your recent photo are able to be seen from a little icon on the bottom right hand corner, and she hadn't checked her phone since Saturday." He took the phone out again, and tapped on the icon. The camera came out, but Sherlock pressed another widget thing, and photos appeared. He flicked though them, each one showing Amelia and another man he assumed was her brother (based on the facial similarities they shared) smiling and drinking at what appeared to be a pub with some other friends.

"How was the phone not water damaged?" Sherlock clicked the phone off, and put it back in his coat.

"Life-proof case. Very hard to damage, and also the fact she had placed it in a plastic bag inside her coat." Sherlock chuckled lightly.

They arrived at the flat, and John paid the driver. Upstairs was a mess, but Mrs. Hudson had ordered Chinese take out for them, which thankfully Sherlock didn't protest at. They took off their coats and ate dinner in front of the telly, watching crap telly. Sherlock continued to yell at the screen in various tones, while John smirked and glanced at Sherlock every few minutes. He was looking rather nice tonight. Not as in, dress up and fancy suits nice, but as in carefree and relaxed. It was a luxury they could almost never afford. But John treasured the times they had it.

Sooner or later, Sherlock began to snooze and eventually woke himself up. He grumbled at John for not waking him, and then stumbled over to the bathroom to take a shower. John smiled, turned off the telly, and began to wash up. A few minutes later, he was done and Sherlock was out. 

"Are you coming?" Sherlock was in the doorway, pyjamas on. Granted, it was only striped trousers and his bathrobe, but that was considered sleepwear for him. John grinned, and wiped his hands on a towel. 

"Sure thing." Ten minutes later, his teeth were brushed and pyjamas on, and he was in bed reading. Sherlock was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, until John decided to shut off the light. And then, very subtly, while Sherlock was otherwise occupied, he unplugged the radio. Tomorrow was Saturday, and they deserved some rest. John shuffled underneath the overs and turned off the lamp. 

"Goodnight Sherlock."

"I knew her." Sherlock's voice was quiet, and he turned over to face John.

"Who?"

"Amelia Samson. Or as she preferred, Amelia Genevieve Edith Samson." His eyes were catlike in the pale light from the curtains. John frowned very slightly, while Sherlock curled up into a ball, squeezing his knees by his chin. 

"Why didn't you tell Lestrade this?" John yawned, and blinked rather lazily.

"Because he already knew." Sherlock was shirtless, pale scars on his shoulder glowing in the outside light. 

"Really?" 

"We worked on a case a couple of times together. And then she left for France and I never heard from her again." Sherlock yawned.

"Well."

"Mmmhmm. She was nice, but very professional at sometimes and funny at others. Bipolar. Intelligent. Like you."

"Is that so?" John was becoming steadily tired, his eyelids were lead. Sherlock smiled in the moonlight.

"Yes, it is. So go to sleep, John." Sherlock snuggled a bit closer to John, and John in turn wrapped his arms around him. John kissed his curls, and then they fell asleep in a a jumble of limbs.

"Goodnight."


End file.
